


Always Meant to Say

by ladydirewolf1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Composing, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock Fluff, Love Confessions, M/M, Music, Season/Series 03, Sherlock's Violin, Wedding Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:37:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6171274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the night of Sherlock and John's wedding, and John learns the origins of their wedding waltz, Always Meant to Say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Meant to Say

**Author's Note:**

> I have also written Sherlock and John's wedding vows, so please check those out too (maybe first) and thanks for reading!

**Present Day**

            John set their bags down on the bed and smiled to himself. He just couldn’t help it—the joy of casually referring to Sherlock as his _husband_ to the innkeeper was unexplainable and addictive. It was a joy that would last for the rest of their life together.

            Still smiling, John turned and surveyed the rest of the room. It was a small, cozy sort of place. Honey-stained floors, a crackling fire, and rich linens on the large bed reminded him of home, of Baker Street.

            “Well _that_ took longer than expected.”

            _Ah, there he is._ The warm atmosphere wasn’t the only reminder of home.

            John gave a tiny sigh of exasperation and gazed at his husband. Sherlock stood in the doorway, a plastic bag in his hands and an irritated (and adorably so) expression upon his pale face. “It wasn’t my fault we didn’t bring any toothbrushes on our honeymoon.”

            “Oh, and it’s mine?”

            “Well it was you who melted down the ones at home in a cooking pot,” John teased, prying the bag from Sherlock’s hands and throwing it onto the dresser. “ _And_ it was you who insisted we leave London in the middle of the night.” Sherlock let out a huff of indignation as John wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him closer till his familiar, slightly-minty scent filled John’s nose.

            “We couldn’t risk being followed by Mycroft, John,” said Sherlock. “Not on our—”

            “Don’t say it.”

            “On our sex holiday,” Sherlock finished with a grin.

            “Only an idiot calls it that.”

            “Good thing I’m yours, then, Doctor.” They both smiled, and Sherlock wrapped one arm around John’s waist while his free hand played idly with John’s too-long hair at the nape of his neck. “As you full well know, John, the plastic in those toothbrushes is known to contain chemicals that—”

            John silenced him with a kiss. When he pulled back, John saw that Sherlock’s eyes were gazing softly down at him, their color beautiful and pale in the fire’s light. He couldn’t understand how anyone could see coldness in those eyes…well, not anymore. And that was all a façade, really. It was in the past, and John tried not to think about the ghosts that used to haunt that god-forsaken time.

            “What was that for?” Sherlock muttered, tipping his head forward so that their foreheads met. John noticed that their breathing was in synch, their chests rising and falling, rising and falling, as one.

            “Nothing…” He hesitated, slightly, before continuing on. “Just that I want to kiss you for nothing, forever.” John pulled back slightly, their contact breaking. “Does that make any sense?”

            Sherlock gazed down at him without a word, but John knew he understood. He always did. Silently, Sherlock stepped away from the door and held out his hand. His skin was illuminated from the fire, pale and beautiful, like marble chiseled to perfection. “I know we did this at the reception…but if you can kiss me for nothing, then I can do the same. John, may I have this dance?”

            With their bodies pressed together and no music but their own beating hearts, John had never felt safer, never felt more loved. The dance was their wedding waltz, the one Sherlock had so lovingly composed. “ _Always Meant to Say_ ”, the sheet had been titled. Together they swayed slowly across the warmly-lit room, Sherlock’s hand enclosed around his, John’s arm pressed firmly against his husband’s waist. Together, like they always should have been. Together, like they would always be.

            “Do you remember this place, John?” Sherlock asked quietly.

            John racked his brain, which was fuzzy from the warmth surrounding him and the thoughts of their future. “No, I don’t. Have we been here before?”

            Sherlock nodded as they spun to the right. “The night before your first wedding.”

 

**Four Years Ago: The Night before John’s Wedding**

            Sherlock stared out the window, avoiding John’s gaze. Rain pelted against the thick, bubbly glass, distorting the wintery landscape in a watery, grey mess. It had been awkward between them the entire cab ride up to the inn, which was just a few miles from the reception hall. _It wasn’t even my idea that we stay here_ , Sherlock thought bitterly. _It was Mary’s…and I see no problem with the groom and bride sharing the night before their wedding._ Mycroft would call it sentiment. Sherlock would call it mindless tradition.

            But of course the wedding party had decided to separate because of the storm—Mary and her bridesmaids would stay closer to the reception hall, and he and John would stay nearby. And judging by John’s pained expression when they entered their room, he hadn’t anticipated the inn having only one room available with only one bed.

            “Look mate, I can go talk to the innkeep. Maybe I can sleep—”

            “On the _floor_?” Sherlock said shortly, cutting him off. He turned back around. “You can’t sleep on the floor the night before your wedding.”

            John stared back at him, his expression frustratingly unreadable. “I’m going to run out to the cab to grab our things,” he said quietly. Sherlock turned his eyes back to the window until he heard the door close behind him. When he was sure John was gone, Sherlock walked over to the bubbling glass. He could barely make out John’s figure as he ran from the inn towards the cab parked in the drive.

            _Just act normal_ , a voice nagged in Sherlock’s head. _He’s getting married tomorrow. To_ her. _Who cares if you have to share the bed? That’s what friends do._

            _Or you could tell him_ , another, quieter voice said. _Tell him how you feel…what do you have to lose?_

            “Everything,” muttered Sherlock. “Everything or nothing.”

            A heavy thud sounded from behind. Sherlock turned and saw a now-drenched John rummaging through his suitcase. A small velvet box tumbled out amongst the woolen jumpers. The pit in Sherlock’s stomach grew deeper at the sight.

            John straightened and began pulling off his coat. “The cabbie said the storm should clear out by morning,” he said, reaching for the hem of his jumper. Sherlock averted his eyes just as a small strip of slightly-tan skin was made visible at John’s waistline.

            “Good. I hear storms are bad omens for weddings,” said Sherlock, trying to sound casual. When he finally chanced a glance, he saw that John had pulled on Sherlock’s favorite; it was the soft, cream-colored one. _Not that I will ever know its softness_.

            “Ha. As if you believe in those sorts of things.”

            “You know me, John. Nothing happens by coincidence.”

            John zipped up the suitcase. The velvet box was now safely out of sight. They both stared at each other, and awkward silence filled the small, dimly-lit room. He couldn’t help but feel self-conscious of the obviously-romantic atmosphere, which had most likely been set up for a honeymoon before the storm rolled in. Sherlock glanced back outside. “It’s late,” he said lamely. The words did nothing to break the strange, all-consuming tension.

            John nodded. “Yeah,” he started, raking a hand through his hair. “Well, I suppose I can just drag some pillows down and—”

            “Oh don’t start,” said Sherlock, rolling his eyes. “You’re the one getting married, you should sleep in the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.” He stood and began grabbing pillows from the plush bed when a hand suddenly enclosed around his wrist.

            “Sherlock.”

            He looked down at John’s hand against his skin. _This is what could have been_. _Him, touching me. Me, touching him._ The thought sent a dagger to his chest. And, as if realizing this, John quickly drew his hand back. When Sherlock looked back up, John wore a soft, almost sad expression.

            “Sherlock,” John started again. His voice was quiet now. Sherlock wondered if he had been taking his pulse.

            “It’s fine, John. I’m fine. I don’t mind.”

            “No it’s not, and no you aren’t,” he said softly. John closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. When he opened his eyes, they glistened in the warm light. “Because I’m not.”

            Sherlock looked away. He couldn’t believe John was doing this now, the day before his wedding. The day before a promise of life-long commitment to _her._ Sherlock had so desperately wished for this moment for so long, years in fact…but tonight wasn’t it. Anything he said, anything John said, would mean too much but still too little. It would destroy John’s relationship with Mary…and maybe even with himself.

            “I want to show you something,” murmured Sherlock. He stepped away and began rummaging through his own suitcase. Finally, under button-ups and trousers and neatly-rolled socks, he found it. He walked back over to where John stood waiting and carefully placed the folder in John’s hands. “Open it.”

            Slowly, John opened the folder and his eyes fell upon the paper. For a long moment they stayed there, scanning in silence. When his eyes lifted, they shone even brighter than before. “I thought you already wrote us a waltz, _For Mary and John_?”

            Sherlock nodded. “I did, and that’s what I’ll play tomorrow,” he said quietly as John continued to gaze at the hand-written sheet music. “I wrote this for you.” He knew John was seeing every hand-drawn note, every scratched-out bar, every comment in the margins. He knew John was seeing him.

            “And what’s it called?” he asked gently, his voice sounding hoarse.

            “I…” Sherlock faltered, looking away. There were so many things he wanted to title the piece: _For John…To my Love…My heart…_ but no. None were quite right, and he couldn’t share those yet anyway. “It doesn’t have a name yet,” Sherlock lied.

            John cleared his throat and met his eyes in silent thanks. “Will I hear you play it someday?” he whispered, setting the folder down on the bed.

            Sherlock swallowed. He just realized how close they were standing now. Just inches apart. “Perhaps someday.” _In some other world, in some other time_ , he wanted to say, but the words would not escape his lips. Instead they clung there, paralyzed with fear and pain and a deep sorrow for what could never be said.

            “I am so sorry, Sherlock,” John breathed out, his breath warm against his skin. As the words drifted out, a hand reached up, just resting, resting against Sherlock’s chest. It lay against his heart, doing nothing, saying everything.

            “I know,” answered Sherlock, terrified to say anything that would take away the hand feeling every beat, every tremor of his heart, if only for a moment or a night or forever long they had together before the sun rose again and the man he loved was gone.

            “I’m sure it would have been beautiful,” whispered John.

            Sherlock shut his eyes, and a life with John flashed before his eyes; it was a life without ghosts, without fear, without silence. Just the two of them, here, in this room on a winter evening with dreams of the rest of their lives. Together. Always together.

 

**Present Day**

            John stopped, feeling Sherlock’s arms drop as their silent music died away. “The night of our first kiss…it was here.” He stepped back and gazed around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. He turned back. “And that music…”

            The corner of Sherlock’s mouth lifted, his eyes soft. “That music was our wedding waltz, _Always Meant to Say._ His hands took John’s and led him over to the bed.

            “I didn’t realize…Sherlock, how long ago did you write that piece?”

            Sherlock pressed a kiss to John’s jaw before responding. “John Watson, I knew I loved you the day you saved my life all those years ago. The waltz, the piece…I always meant to say it, John. I always knew. When I jumped from that rooftop, when I kissed you the first time, when I stood by your side at your wedding, when I said goodbye at the tarmac…I always meant to say I loved you.”

            With that, John kissed him. He kissed his husband, his best friend. He kissed his past and his future. He kissed the man he loved because it too was what he always meant to say.

**Four Years Ago: The Night Before John’s Wedding**

            And without thinking of tomorrow or the past or the consequences, Sherlock brought his lips to John’s and felt him shudder beneath his touch.   

_It really would have been beautiful._


End file.
